Balls Are The New Vagina

For all my talk of punching ladies in the twat, it should be noted that I'm a raging feminist.
And no fellas, that doesn't make me a lesbian.
Being a feminist in today's society is defined (by me) as "a woman who is amazed that women, who are more disciplined, more perceptive, more passionate, more intelligent and oh yeah, WE HAVE THE ABILITY TO GESTATE OTHER HUMAN BEINGS don't run this planet and everything on it."
I mean it, I'm amazed almost every single day that we aren't in charge. So when the opportunity arises for me to deal with a man who treats all women as subordinate (car salesmen, IT guys, old white men, auto repairmen, Armenian guys, jewelers, personal trainers, electricians, the idiots who wear orange vests at Home Depot, tire salesmen, prepubescent Jewish boys, etc) it's the equivalent of an athlete who has been training 6 days a week, 3 hours a day for 2 years just to go play in a softball league at the Y.
It's just not a fair fight for these numb nuts.
For example, the last time I bought a car the guy in that tiny hot room made the mistake of taking his little pen out and making the little diagram on the paper to show me what my payment would be.
"Oh wow, gee mister, you're really smart! You just added all those numbers! And so strong! Do you work out?"
So after he walked across the room to pick up his little pen and paper, stormed out, and sent his manager in, the manager said to me "I'm starting to understand why your husband sent you here alone to buy."
But getting to deal with an actual misogynist is such a gift. I mean, usually, I'm just reading online news where a man has an opinion about abortion (No, you don't get one. Okay, you can have one, but no one should care what it is) or listening to some fucktard on CNN muse about the inequality of pay for women (did plantation owners ever have totally awesome thoughts about emancipation?) and there is not one guilty male around that I can punch. 

Which reminds me, my car is almost out of warranty.
Beware, jack offs, I aim low.

Time Out, Mama.

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Carry On, You Fucktard.

I know what you're thinking.
"It's not my fault they changed the rules."
"It's 50 bucks."
"I might want to change my shoes mid-flight."
Or maybe you've got a stash of pork rinds in there and you just know you're gonna get hungry.

While I understand all of it (except the pork rinds) we really need to stick together on this.
So, since no one else seems willing to tell you, I guess it's my job.
Check your fucking suitcase, you ass monkey. It's not a carry on. You know how I know?
Because you CAN'T CARRY IT! If the wheels on that behemoth broke, you'd be shit outta luck.
Dear god, what has happened to us as a society? When given the choice between spending 50 bucks or becoming human cholesterol, clogging the arteries of every aisle, bathroom, and checkpoint, most of you defiantly chose the latter.
It's a sad fact that the vast majority of mouth breathers will happily cram every piece of their shit in a bag the size of a twin bed and then stand slack jawed as some poor flight attendant tells them that "No, shockingly, your 315 pound, three square foot box won't fit under your seat. You'll have to check it."  This will be after you've inconvenienced every poor soul who forked over the money, and now you'll get stuck with paying for your shit-box anyway.
And yes, the airlines should have the common fucking decency to just bury the charge in the ticket price like they used to and let us all fool ourselves into thinking its for free. But let's face it, people who work for he airlines were hardly the forward thinkers of their generation, now were they? Going to work at a shitty diner in the sky was most likely never the dream of our valedictorians.
Therefore, I'm afraid we're going to have to handle this problem from the ground up.
So, while we're still here on the ground allow me to reiterate..."If your carry on bag is neither a purse nor an iPad, I'm going to punch you in the vagina and steal your neckpillow, fuckface."

An Open Letter to Breastfeeding Mothers Everywhere (the Repost)

*I originally posted this on Facebook, but since most of you milky bitches never passed the word on (at least that is what my own personal run-ins with lactating fuckwits would indicate) I've decided to give it another go.

Dear Breastfeeding mothers,
First, this note is not for most of you, but I write to you all in hopes that you will perhaps pass my sentiments to your pals at your next La Leche meeting, in the nursing bra department of Target, or near the fenugreek supplements at Whole Foods.

In short, we bottle feeding mothers are fed the fuck up with your bullshit.
#1. It’s none of your business.
#2.  Some of us CAN’T breastfeed.  Did you understand that?  It’s not that we’re NOT breastfeeding.  It’s that we CAN’T.  And for those of us who choose NOT to, even if we can, please see #1.
#3. To ask a woman who is feeding her child formula if she “tried” to breastfeed may get you punched in the mouth or worse.  If it’s me you’re asking, I’ll punch you in the vagina.  But to each her own.
#4.  I don’t care what you do for you child.  Supplement with formula? Give one bottle a day? A year? Call your mother and tell her all about it, I’d rather cut my ear off and nail it to a tree than listen to all the things that you think we “have in common.”
#5. Have I thought about all the benefits?  No, of course not.  I don’t think about anything other than how well rested I look when my husband does all the night feedings.
#6. Oh, you know a great lactation consultant?  I’ve never heard of those.  What do they do?  Really? Thank you so much for telling me.  What with living in LOS FUCKING ANGELES I’m really so out of touch with all the resources available. Dipshit.
#7. Yes, I was breastfed. And my sister was not.  I have allergies, she does not. And she scored higher on her ACT and her IQ test.  Clearly, my mother did me a disservice.
#8. I somehow managed to lose all of my baby weight without waiting for my children to drain it out of my nipples.
#9. Just because my kid is next to your kid in the sandpit does not make us girlfriends.
#10. I’ve got 2 kids under the age of 2, I’m exhausted and irritated before you ever begin speaking.  And just so we’re clear, I’m dying to punch one of you “holier than thou” broads in the vag.

Lots of store-bought powdered love,
Tisha

p.s. #11. Please don't expect us not to stare and look horrified when your toddler puts his mouth on your boob after saying "Milk, Mommy" and unbuttoning your shirt.  He's too old.  And you were clearly fucked too young.  Get some therapy and leave that poor child alone.  Yes, lady at Fashion Square this past Friday at 1:20pm outside Banana Republic, I mean you.

¿Cómo se dice "twat swat"?

Okay, so here's the deal.  I love immigrants (legal and otherwise). I don't care if you spent years dedicated to the paperwork and interviews to gain your status or if you rode here in the trunk of a Subaru. I don't care if your parents were illegal but you were born here.  I don't care if you gave birth while running across the border and dropped one twin in Mexico and one in Texas and they both wave the American flag, congratulations and bienvenida.  Here is the only thing that I do care about, if you live in America please speak just enough English so that when I tell you to "Go fuck yourself" it'll really hit home.  It pains me to spend time out of my day telling you what a jackhole you're being only for you to smile at me and murmur some variation of "No English."  
If you ask me, there should a one page Citizenship test with only three simple questions. 
#1. Please translate "Go fuck yourself" (native slang is permissible).
#2. A picture of the middle finger extended. Beneath it put a smiley face and a frowny face. Please circle the corresponding emotion.
3. If someone threatens to punch you in the vagina, would you say you're being a good citizen or total fuckwit?  (You can write on the back of this page).
You're welcome, America.

Ugh. A Blog. How Douchey.

Seriously.  Another fuckwit who thinks that their musings are so important that others need to know?
Actually, that's not true.  What IS true is that I encounter a ridiculous number of jackholes on any given day.  Ridiculous. And in the event that I can't properly tell them to kindly take their bullshit elsewhere, I need a place to express my anger.  Example: I motion for a guy in a jaguar to merge in front of me today on Ventura...he accepts and then flips me off.  Really, guy?  After I LET YOU IN? With my kid in a carseat?
As we get to know each other you will realize that I'm not one of those meek women you see who can't seem to confront anyone and then go home and cry over their keyboard.  That's not me. 
I'm sort of a prick.  I say "prick" because during an altercation in a parking lot last year a young Hispanic man called me that.  I have to admit I was sort of flattered.  I had transcended bitch altogether and wound up a "prick". 
But I digress, as I was saying...I'm not meek.  I'm half Spanish and half Sicilian.  At the age I am now (mid-30s....okay fuck you, late-30s) I rarely get physical, but I have to admit that I look forward to verbal confrontations.  Maybe that's my problem.  I sort of expect a fight with each turn and in this city of failed hopes and pure desperation, I'm rarely disappointed. Example: last Spring in Nordstroms I watched an otherwise normal woman lose her ever-lovin' shit when a salesgirl informed her that the dress she had called and put on hold had inadvertently been sold.  Now, sure when you're upper-middle class this sort of trauma will necessitate an extra therapy session, but I think what really irritated me was that this dingbat sort of looked like me.  Not physically, but accessory-wise.  She had a stroller, designer sunglasses, Coffee Bean, and barely there lipgloss.  Maybe that's what set me off.  That in an alternate universe I could be this cunty nitwit and yell at some poor girl who makes $12 an hour.  So, I marched up to the front of the line and said "Excuse me, but whenever you're done showing this girl what a little bit of money and a whole lot of free time look like....the rest of civilization would like to go on with our morning.  Unless you're trying to work out some sort of monologue for some acting class for the forgotten?  Oh don't look so shocked, you should be shocked that no one punched you in the vagina for being so ridiculous."  And then I went back to the end of the line. 
I can't be sure, because she was only 6 months at the time, but I think my daughter looked pretty fucking proud.